


crave you

by IvyOnTheHolodeck



Series: kiss kiss purge your mycobiome [1]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Hanahaki Disease, Other, With A Twist, yet another "peter wakes up in bed alone" fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 15:26:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20932466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyOnTheHolodeck/pseuds/IvyOnTheHolodeck
Summary: Peter awakens to an empty bed and a sore throat. The latter he deserves for allowing Juno to drag him to that biohazard of a KwikMed, with its sticky doorknobs and snot-nosed toddlers, instead of a genuine hospital. The former -The former he also deserves. That’s all to be said on the matter.





	crave you

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings in end notes.

Peter awakens to an empty bed and a sore throat. The latter he deserves for allowing Juno to drag him to that biohazard of a KwikMed, with its sticky doorknobs and snot-nosed toddlers, instead of a genuine hospital. The former -

The former he also deserves. That’s all to be said on the matter. 

Peter lies between the sheets, shoulders drawn up around his ears, for nearly an hour before he admits to himself that Juno’s not coming back. Nothing to do but get moving. On to bigger and better things. It’s not as though Peter will be leaving Mars with less than he had when he arrived. 

He’d stashed his gear - makeup bag, various IDs, spare plasma knife - inside the Bank of Hyperion’s main vault, but even retrieving those doesn’t brighten his mood. Well, that’s not precisely true, Peter reflects as he scales the bank’s primary air duct. It’s not that his mood hasn’t brightened - it’s that he has no mood at all. 

His throat itches. He swallows and keeps climbing. 

Two hours later he’s dressed to the nines and turning heads. Between the teal cashmere sliding off his shoulder and the floral heels, he’s the pinnacle of Venusian fashion, if anyone bothers to ask. Thanks to Miasma's distinct lack of hospitality, he hadn't even needed to contour.

The attention isn't satisfying the way it used to be. He’s grown accustomed to having an admiring audience.

His ribcage aches. The second he gets off this accursed ball of sand, he’s going to get a full physical. From professionals, this time, who know how to apply decent bone sealant. He looks down to find his fingers digging into his arm, the knuckles white. He forces them to relax. 

In a final concession to pathetic hope, he returns to the hotel. No messages at the front desk, no forwarding addresses, and _ no, there hasn’t been a lady like that in here since last night with you, Mister Versailles. Ain’t he your wife, though? Ain’t you got his number? _

Peter takes the first transport off the planet. He’ll transfer at Rigel B and spend a week or two recuperating at that up-and-coming Proxima Centauri spa, where the attendants are said to be unparalleled in their solicitude. 

With a flicker of annoyance, Peter realizes his mouth has thinned like ice under running water. Basil Plantagenet, a chirpy dilettante with tastes for overpriced wine and overplayed music, would not be caught dead looking so sour. With effort, he pulls his facial muscles into a facsimile of a smile. Dreadfully unconvincing, he’s better off adjusting the identity. Perhaps Plantagenet recently lost his inheritance. And his innocence. And his faith in himself.

His skin itches. He strips, throwing every stitch of clothing into the replicator to be reclaimed. Not a single grain of Martian dust will follow him, not if he has anything to say about it. 

He makes the mistake of looking in the mirror. His ribs protrude. Under the foundation, his skin has an unhealthy grey tinge. The flesh around his wrists, once he removes the bandages, flames red from Miasma’s shackles. 

Eighteen hours ago, Juno had looked at him and called him beautiful.

A sob rips its way out, shredding everything in its path. God, Juno. 

Peter curls in on himself. It hurts to breathe. His throat is so tight. He tries to clear it, swiping at his eyes, furious at himself for not having checked the cabin for cameras yet. 

But stars, what’s the point? He found the only prize worth stealing, and that prize walked away. Juno, with his rough edges and clear eyes, ready to throw out a quip as easily as a punch, stubborn, honorable, messy,_ perfect. _

He’d once told Juno that what really mattered was finding the right way to talk to people. It’s more than that, though. Peter built his career around becoming exactly the right person to get a mark eating out of his hand. He’s been shy, arrogant, flirtatious, dense, ruthless and thoughtful, lazy and neurotic. He’s been a virgin at least eleven times now, once three times in the same week. 

With Juno, he was Peter Nureyev, and he wasn’t enough. 

Something lodges in his throat. He gags and spits it out.

A ridged ball, slick and red, falls to the shag carpet. With shaking fingers, Peter picks it up. At a glance, one might say it looked like a dahlia.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: difficulty breathing, sensory overload, descriptions of physical appearance post-starvation.
> 
> This is actually the precursor to a much longer fic I'm working on from Juno's perspective post season 2, involving a rosebush, a dance, a mistaken identity, a recording found too late, and a hell of a last ditch effort. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr at ivyontheholodeck - come say hi!


End file.
